


Existence

by Auroradiation



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auroradiation/pseuds/Auroradiation
Summary: I should make it clear first: I do not love Victor Frankenstein.
Relationships: Victor Frankenstein/Frankenstein's Creature
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72





	Existence

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [生](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039037) by [Auroradiation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auroradiation/pseuds/Auroradiation). 



> Big thanks to my dear friends SaltyMoon who wrote this fanfic for me and Peanut who helped me with my translation. You are the best.

I should make it clear first: I do not love Victor Frankenstein.

My greatest suffering — existence — was caused by him, only him, and no one else. He practiced an art long forgotten by time, employed machines so absurd and profane, committed a crime damned by moral and religion, painstakingly, singlehandedly brought me to this world, and then refused to love me. There were times when I felt like being lured into a sort of trap. It made no sense. Did he create me only to hurt me?

I felt strangely calm when I murdered his friend. _Is this_ _revenge_ _? Or rather, is this a justified revenge?_ I can’t answer. No amount of death is enough to sooth the pain of existence. He created me, but I have nothing to repay him with except death. I don’t have his hands with which I might inflict the same torture; mine can only clutch around someone’s throat. And the moment I did that, everything became clear to me.

In the next few minutes, I tightened my grip in silence, and watched my victim’s lively skin turning into the same hue of my fingers, his eyes bulging, lips swelling, fingers twisting; no part of him stayed the same except for the hair that is said to grow even after one dies. It takes five minutes to end a life, but death only happens in an instant. I held my breath, hoping to capture the moment when the miracle befalls.

I didn't find it.

The shift was too quick, and too silent. In retrospect, doubts began to grow inside me: Perhaps, Victor Frankenstein too, had stared into someone’s death, wanting to witness its happen, and see how it conquers the dying and forsakes the living; or, perhaps, it wasn't his intention to see through death; he had only chanced a glimpse at its shape as he stood by someone’s death bed. But these conjectures came much later. My thought at the moment was simple. I wanted to ask my creator: _Is this what you_ _tried_ _to stop?_

It was only with such comprehension was I able to hate him whole-heartedly and escape once and for all from the inertia habit of loving him. On the day I murdered his friend I realized, perhaps my birth was only a part of his attempt to reverse someone else’s death.

And how trivial death is, compared to the pain I have suffered.

Nevertheless, I had no other way except going back to him, like an unwelcomed beast, forced back to the womb from which he was casted out. And my mother? He hated me like everyone else in the world. But he is dead, his body only slightly warmer than the Arctic air. I buried my head in his chest, and rejoiced at its tiny warmth.

I had a dream before I die: a replicate of reality, the only argument I had had with Victor. In it, the weapon he used to accuse me was not the efforts he had put into making me, nor the generosity with which he had given me the right to live. He told me: _After all was done, I did not rest, instead, I_ _suppressed_ _my weariness and waited for the miracle before the flickering light, but five minutes later_ _…_ _look what success I have accomplished!_

So I was to know, that was the only five minutes in my life which I had enjoyed his kindness.

Still, I must make it clear: I do not love him —— I do not love him at all. It’s only because I have nowhere else to go, just like he had nowhere else to go, his good life all wasted on haunting me down. You shouldn't assume that he hates me and I love him just because of the gun in his hand and my fingers on his cheek. Maybe it’s the other way around; or maybe none of these makes any difference. Love or hate, we will all end up in the same place. Could anyone truly love or hate death?

How long does it take for someone to freeze to death? And how long does it take for someone to die for no reasons at all, crushed by some lurking and unknown disease? I made a wish before I fell asleep, hoping to dream of myself lying again on Victor’s dissecting table…

And the cold wind kills us all before the fate.


End file.
